


Wednesday

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Bottom Evan, Boys In Love, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Smut, Top Connor, Tree Bros, VERYYY slight dom/sub undertones if you squint, college bros, sleepy morning snuggles, yep more pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: It's just...absolutely not OK. Evan does not approve of this. Not one little bit.(Or: Connor wants to get out of bed. Evan wants to be cuddled back to sleep. Neither of them end up getting what they want, but they're not about to complain about it.)
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 407





	Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> OH DEAR i wrote more college tree bros sin, whoops~
> 
> Sorry to those of you who are waiting on the last installment of How-To Guide! I promise I've not abandoned it. This just. Happened.
> 
> Thank you for all your support as always, and sorry I've been kind of dead on ao3 lately; work has been chaotic and I have been V Stressed. But I've met all the deadlines, done all the important stuff, so I'm baaack :D
> 
> tumblr: @theyellowestmustard
> 
> No TW apart from the obvious - read the rating!  
> Love you!!!! <3

* * *

It's a rare occurrence, these days, that Connor does something that Evan doesn't approve of.

There used to be things. Not a lot. Just a few things Connor would do that Evan would actively voice his disapproval over. 

Skipping therapy sessions for no other reason than ' _ but I feel fine today, so'.  _

Cigarettes (which were, according to Evan's research,  _ significantly _ more harmful than weed, and the thought of Connor getting sick, getting  _ seriously  _ sick, honestly made Evan feel like he might throw up). 

Opening a new carton of milk when there was already a carton of milk open (who  _ does  _ that?). 

But the thing about Connor; the wonderful, incredible,  _ beautiful _ thing about Connor, is that he listens. He listens and he learns and he adjusts, because he  _ cares. _

He cares about Evan.

He  _ loves  _ Evan.

Which, even now, three years on, is just. It’s mind-boggling, really. 

According to Connor, Evan actually ‘communicates really clearly’ when Connor’s doing something that he doesn’t like. Which. Sounds fake, to Evan, but he’ll take it. Connor says he’s ‘really good at expressing himself without, like... attacking’. He says he  _ appreciates  _ it when Evan voices this stuff, because it makes Connor, like. Better. A better person.

And he  _ goes  _ to therapy now, even if he’s having a good day, because both Evan and Connor know that it’s hard to predict when the bad days are going to creep up. Because that's just how mental illness is.

And he’s given up smoking, which took some time and effort, and enough packs of gum that Connor might as well have bought out the entire Wrigley Company. But he’d  _ done  _ it. He’d done it for Evan.

And…

Well, the milk situation is still a thing. But Evan’s OK with choosing his battles.

The point is: Evan’s not exactly picky. He loves Connor any which way; good days and bad days, habits and quirks and scars and all. The whole fucking gorgeous mess. His love for Connor is all-encompassing; spreading wider, stretching on with every passing moment; endless. He doesn’t expect Connor to change for him. He doesn’t  _ want _ Connor to change, really, because Connor is perfect exactly the way he is.

But Evan knows. He knows that if there’s ever anything he doesn’t approve of, that Connor will listen to him. Connor will hear him out.

So he’s absolutely  _ not  _ about to let this fuckery slide.

It’s the one day. The  _ one day _ where neither of them have any classes until late afternoon. The one day of the week where they can sleep in; hide from the world in their tiny apartment and pretend, just for a few hours, that they don’t have any professors or essays or commitments. 

It’s the best day of the week. 

And Evan’s being spooned, which is just... _ completely _ lovely. 

There are familiar skinny arms wrapped snugly around his waist, and legs slotted against his own, and a face nestled against the back of his neck, breathing steady and soft into his skin. Evan’s not sure what time it is, but he can tell by the level of pale light in the room that it has to be pretty early. Probably only a little after dawn. Which means that he’s still got  _ hours _ of this; hours and hours and hours of warmth and safety and the heady tug of sleep as it pulls him back under.

Connor shifts a little behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of Evan’s head, and Evan responds with a barely-conscious, contented hum. Because he’s happy. He’s just...he’s really really happy.

And then the arms around his middle carefully begin to disentangle themselves.

And it  _ really _ feels like Connor is about to get up.

Which is just...absolutely not OK.

Evan does  _ not  _ approve of this. 

He lets Connor know immediately, with his trademark ‘clear communication’. 

_ “Nooooooo,”  _ he whines, and his voice sounds all awful and groggy; gravelly with sleep, and he hates the sound of it for a moment, but the brief stab of self-loathing is quickly forgotten because Connor is  _ still pulling away _ , still  _ moving _ , even though Evan has made himself  _ perfectly clear.  _ He grabs clumsily for Connor’s hands in an attempt to pull him back; to pull him close, and he shuffles about as he tries to resituate himself in Connor’s arms.

Connor chuckles quietly; affectionately.

“Gotta get up, Ev,” he murmurs, and  _ his  _ voice is kind of gravelly with sleep too, which just goes to show that Evan is  _ right _ , that Connor should just. Stop this ridiculousness and go back to cuddling the fuck out him. They’ve both been swamped with work the past couple of weeks, and the threat of midterms is looming over them, and they’ve been spending every waking moment in a perpetual state of grumpy, stressed-out exhaustion.

And Evan is warm, and so  _ so _ comfortable, and he just. He wants Connor to  _ stay. _

“ _ No,”  _ he mumbles, barely coherent. “Five more minutes. Please?”

“If I stay five more minutes I’ll fall asleep,” Connor says, and Evan  _ knows _ that, he’d kind of been  _ counting  _ on that. “I have a paper to write. Due tomorrow. Gotta get moving.”

“No, that’s not--” and Evan’s not sure where he was going with that, so he stops, tries to wake up his brain enough to come up with a good reason for Connor to stay in bed, just for a little while longer. “I’ll...I’ll write your paper for you, ‘kay? I’ll...I’ll do it right now.”

This seems to spark Connor’s interest; or at least his amusement, because then he’s coming back, snaking his arms around Evan, and Evan can feel his shoulders shaking as he laughs at him but that’s just fine, Connor can laugh at Evan all he wants because Evan’s being  _ held _ . 

“Will you?” he teases. “That’s fucking awesome. It’s for Art History. On Cubism and its role in the avant-garde movement.”

Evan knows some of those words.

“M’kay,” he mumbles sleepily, wriggling into Connor’s embrace. “I’ll get right on it.”

Connor clicks his tongue in disagreement. 

“Nope. You’re gonna have to start right away. Otherwise, I might as well just get up and--”

“ _ No,”  _ Evan groans again. “OK, I’m. OK.”

He blinks forcefully, trying to sweep the clouds out of his brain.

It’s not so bad, if he doesn’t get to go back to sleep. At least it’s still more contact time with Connor. And when he looks over his shoulder, bleary-eyed, Connor’s giving him this expectant little smirk, like he can’t wait to see what Evan, the environmental science major, has to say about Cubism.

It brings out the dimples in his cheeks.

Evan adores those dimples.

“So, um,” he says, and he blinks again, because he’s still not very awake, and Connor is very beautiful, and the combination is making his head feel kind of fuzzy. “So Cubism is like. It’s. Cubes?”

Connor snickers.

"You're not wrong. Continue."

"And, uh. The role it had on the avant-garde movement was. Um...big?"

"Good start. What else you got?" 

"That's, uh--" 

And Evan's train of thought glides away, sliding off the tracks completely, because Connor has slipped his fingers underneath Evan's T-shirt. He strokes gently at Evan's skin, back and forth across Evan's stomach, deliberately trailing over that spot that Connor  _ knows  _ is kind of ticklish, over and over again.

And.

OK.

This wasn't exactly what Evan had had in mind, when he'd all but demanded that Connor stay.

It's better. 

_ Way  _ better.

Evan's brain still feels warm and cozy, because he's only really been awake for five minutes or so, and he's still picking up all the indicators that usually mean it's sleep time; the covers tucked around his shoulders, and the arms cocooning him in, the legs bent and tucked flush against the backs his own. 

But the touch at Evan's waist is unrelenting, and then Connor's leaning forward to brush his lips over the back of Evan's neck, over Evan's way-too-sensitive ear, kissing soft and sweet and slow, and Evan can't help it when his eyes slide shut in bliss, can't help his skin from breaking out into goosebumps because it's just too much  _ sensation _ for Evan's sleepy brain to handle, and his ability to think grows even more lazy and sluggish, like there's some kind of goo clogging up the gears in Evan's head.

He pushes his face into the pillow to give Connor more of his neck to kiss.

Connor chuckles.

"The cubes," he says, low and husky and heated into Evan's ear. "Tell me about the cubes."

Right. The cubes. Cubism. Which Evan knows nothing about. Which Connor  _ knows _ Evan knows nothing about. Like, is Cubism a sculpture thing? Or painting? Or both? Evan's got no clue, but fuck; he'll have a wild stab in the dark, he'll say anything, whatever the hell Connor wants if it means he'll keep kissing his neck and breathing hot against his skin and sliding his hands around under his shirt.

"They... someone... _ painted _ the cubes?" 

Every word takes effort.

"They did," says Connor approvingly, voice warm with amusement. " _ Who _ painted the cubes?"

He nips lightly at Evan's earlobe, and his tongue darts out to alleviate the sting. 

Evan shudders.

And, to his credit, he  _ tries _ to think. Of literally any painting he can think of that looks...cubey. Of any artist he know that paints, like.. squares, or something.

But then Connor's fingers dip under the waistband of Evan's pajama pants, grabbing Evan by the hips, nails biting into Evan's skin. And slowly, intentionally slowly, he grinds his hips against Evan's ass.

And he's  _ hard.  _

And then it's all Evan can do to just.. think of  _ any  _ artist. Literally  _ any. _

"I, um… Van Gogh?"

That's wrong. Definitely. It  _ sounds  _ wrong.

Connor smirks.

One hand relinquishes it's hold of Evan's hip and slides down further. Like, straight down Evan's pant leg, to rest against his bare skin. He drags his fingers lightly over Evan's outer thigh, then his nails, then his fingers again. And he keeps on kissing Evan's neck the whole time, with the slight brush of his tongue every now and again, so Evan never knows when to expect it. And Evan's melting, completely fucking melting into every touch, every kiss, and he's glad he's already lying down because he's pretty sure he's forgotten how to stand upright. 

"Van Gogh, really? That's interesting, I didn't know that. Who else?"

Connor's fingers begin creeping towards Evan's inner thighs.

"Um... Michelangelo. And um _ \--fuck, Connor _ ... also, um…"

And then Connor is curling his fingers around him.

And Evan responds with this long, drawn-out moan, because literally nothing in the entire world has ever and _will_ ever feel as good as Connor touching him. He pushes his hips forward, eyes sliding shut as heat rolls through him. Connor strokes him lazily, languidly, like he's got all the time in the world, and Evan's just floating through it, drifting, slipping away...

"Also…?" prompts Connor, and it's light and teasing but Evan can hear the  _ want _ hiding just beneath the surface.

Also...also  _ what?  _

Fuck. 

Art stuff. 

Say something art related, Evan.

"Also, um...The Mona Lisa."

Good enough.

"Right, of course," says Connor, and he's laughing, he's laughing at Evan, but that's OK, Evan's just fine with that. "The famous Cubists. Van Gogh, Michelangelo and The Mona Lisa. How could I forget?"

Evan doesn’t reply.  _ Can’t _ reply, because Connor’s rubbing circles over the head of his dick, dragging the pad of his thumb over the slit where Evan feels pre-come already welling, and all Evan can do is moan helplessly. 

He wants to kiss Connor. 

God, he wants to kiss Connor  _ so  _ badly.

But he can't reach him, can't get to his lips from this angle, and when he tries to roll over Connor's hand shifts from between his legs to his waist, holding him firmly in place.

"Where do you think you're going?" Connor asks, low and crackly, and Evan whines in frustration. 

"I just...I wanted--"

And then Evan's breath leaves him all at once, and he never gets to tell Connor what he wanted, because Connor grabs the waistband of Evan's pants, and his underwear, and yanks them both down to his thighs. And Evan kicks his legs aggressively to get them the rest of the way off, and then Connor tugs at his shirt and he's peeling that off, too, and then Evan is naked under the covers, and the sheets against his bare skin make him feel weirdly vulnerable, for a second. Like. He just feels... _ very _ naked. 

And then Connor's gone, he's not spooning Evan anymore, but Evan knows he's still there because he can feel weight behind him, shifting restlessly, and Evan realizes Connor is stripping off his own pajamas, which is good; a very very good thing. 

Evan moves to roll over again, because Connor is _naked,_ right there behind him, and if Evan doesn't get to look at him he thinks he might actually die. But Connor's arm shoots out and squeezes Evan's waist again, holding him down.

"Nope," Connor says, his voice deliciously low and rough and teasing. "Got you  _ right _ where I want you, actually."

Evan silently marvels at how Connor is consistently able to find the exact combination of words that leaves him quivering.

He bites his lip and swallows a whimper, staying submissively where he is.

He misses the weight and sleepy morning warmth of Connor pressed up against him, even more aware of the empty space between them now that he's naked under the sheets. But Connor doesn't let him dwell on it for too long, because then Evan feels fingertips, the drag of fingertips over his bare ass, so gently it barely constitutes as touch as all. There's something almost reverent about the way Connor touches him; like he's in awe that he's  _ allowed _ , like he can't  _ believe  _ Evan actually wants him, which is just. So totally and ridiculously  _ backwards.  _ It's  _ insane. _

Connor touches Evan like he's something worth taking his time on.

"You have a really nice ass, y'know?" Connor murmurs, and Evan can't help but breathe a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "For real," Connor insists. “Just... _ fuck _ .  _ Fuck _ , Evan.”

And like.

Evan’s not sure where it comes from, honestly. 

He doesn’t usually consider himself very quick-witted. And he’s even less so at the moment, because he’s just sinking into the lazy heat of  _ Connor _ , but…

“Yes, please,” Evan mumbles.

  
  


Connor stills.

  
  


“Yeah?” he breathes out. “You sure? It’s been ages since you’ve--”

_ “Please,” _ Evan says again, and it comes out sounding way more whiny and needy than Evan would have liked, but Evan  _ is _ whiny and needy, so. Whatever.

Connor laughs throatily, and Evan feels lips against the back of his neck, his ear, his hair, leaving trails of these chaste little kisses all over, everywhere.

"Lube," Connor murmurs, right into Evan's ear, and it sounds like a demand. "You're closer."

And Evan  _ is _ closer, he takes the outer edge of the bed because Connor likes the space near the wall, so he finds himself dragging the dead weight of his arms up up up to the drawer of the nightstand and it takes way too much clumsy digging around before his fingers close around the familiar shape of the bottle, then the box of condoms, and he shoves them blindly back over his shoulder in Connor’s direction.

Evan hears Connor uncap the bottle, just barely audible over the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears, and he shifts onto his stomach, shamelessly drawing one knee up to give Connor better access, and Connor fucking  _ groans _ and then there’s slipperiness and pressure and Connor whispering in his ear, telling him to relax, telling him that he’s doing  _ so  _ good, that’s he’s so fucking  _ tight, Evan, fuck… _

And Evan just sinks into the feeling, just completely succumbs to it, to the leisurely waves of heat and maybe he mumbles something weakly, maybe  _ Connor  _ or  _ please  _ or  _ thank you _ but he's not sure, he can't hear anything, he's barely aware of where he is or who he is, it all just dissipates, and the only thing that matters is that Connor is fingering him.

Each inhale feels more like an exhale, like he's breathing out and out and out and never taking any new air in, and there’s the faint pang of discomfort each time Connor adds another finger, each time he stretches Evan open, because Connor's right, it's been ages since Evan's done this. They're usually the other way around. 

Which Evan  _ loves.  _ But.

This is. Something else. Something else  _ entirely. _

Connor crooks his fingers a little like he's aiming for Evan's prostate, but he doesn't quite crook them enough, so he's brushing just  _ past  _ it with every stroke, just  _ barely  _ grazing it, which he is absolutely doing on purpose and it has Evan completely fucking shaking with pleasure. 

And he whimpers against each shock of warmth that races through him, and pushes his groin against the mattress uselessly, and he begs. Begs and begs;  _ Connor please, Connor fuck, Connor… _

Connor eventually takes pity on him, and rolls him back onto his side with another groan. And Evan lies there, waiting for Connor to flip him onto his back or up onto his hands and knees or something, but he doesn't. Instead he moves closer, flush against Evan's back, his erection pressing into the back of Evan's thigh, already slick with lube and when had _that_ happened? 

And this is new, they've never done it like  _ this _ before, and Evan's not entirely sure how to--

"You OK with this?" Connor murmurs.

"I... _ yeah _ , I just…"

Connor seems to read his confusion, because he kisses Evan's shoulder softly, and goes, "Knee up," and Evan pulls one knee up towards his chest obediently, and then Connor is easing into him in one slow, fluid movement and letting out this cry of white-hot bliss, and Evan grips the sheets; whiteknuckled, gasping.

Connor waits for Evan to adjust, which takes longer than Evan would like it to, and he's breathing in this strained sort of way as he digs his nails into Evan's hips. And it's confusing Evan's brain a little, that they're spooning all cuddly and cute but that Connor is  _ inside  _ him. But it's not  _ bad  _ confusion. Not at  _ all.  _ It's so incredibly  _ good _ that Evan finds himself pushing his ass back into Connor's lap after a while, trying to get, like.  _ More  _ of him.

Connor seems more than happy to oblige. 

He tightens his hold on Evan's hips and starts moving, slow and languid; like he's not chasing the feeling, just letting everything happen at the rate his body wants it to happen. He gasps Evan's name as he rolls his hips forward, and again when Evan pushes back to meet him, and it's slow, warm and melting and  _ slow _ ,  _ slow, _ and it's everything Evan has ever ever wanted.

“Fuck, Evan you feel so fucking good, oh my  _ god,”  _ Connor chokes out, arms moving to wrap around him, holding him impossibly close, burying his face in the back of Evan's neck and breathing hard, and Evan can only moan weakly in response, moan and moan as Connor fucks him.

And  _ god _ it's almost too much, he's almost already  _ there _ even though Connor hasn't even touched him, and he squirms and whimpers and rocks his hips in time with Connor's thrusts, and then long, pretty fingers are running over his skin and he shivers violently.

And then his hand wraps around his length, and Connor doesn’t even manage a complete up-down before Evan is coming, coming all over Connor's fingers, whimpering pathetically as vicious shudders beat down the path of his body; pleasure,  _ agonizing _ pleasure uncoiling all the way through him, all the way down to his bones.

_ “Fuck,” _ Connor breathes from behind him, sounding stunned. Awestruck. “Fuck,  _ really?  _ I barely even  _ touched  _ you.”

Evan can only moan softly in reply.

Connor mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a request to keep going, and Evan lets out an equally vague affirmative noise, and Connor keeps moving, keeps sliding in and out of him, and Evan’s entire body is still sparking, smarting with pleasure, so intense it almost hurts, and then Connor’s squeezing hard at Evan’s waist and letting out a long, hoarse moan as he comes, and his orgasm blossoms like the rest of the morning has; slow slow slow, slow and beautiful and warm, the tremors going on and on. 

And then it’s over, and Connor’s pulling out, pulling away, and Evan whimpers, flinging an arm behind himself and reaching for him, and Connor lets out a little laugh that just sounds totally  _ wrecked _ and goes, “Gimme a sec, Ev,” and Evan  _ knows  _ realistically that Connor needs to remove the condom and everything but he doesn’t much  _ care _ , he just. He wants  _ Connor.  _

And then Connor’s reaching over Evan to toss the condom in the trashcan next to the bed, and then gently tugging Evan backwards so he’s clear of the wet patch on the sheets right in front of him. And he whispers, “Hey, c’mere,” and Evan rolls over gingerly, muscles aching, and finally,  _ finally _ gets to look at Connor’s face.

And like.

Jesus.

It almost feels like he’s coming again.

Looking at Connor, all warm and relaxed, clearly still tingling with pleasure.

His sharpness of his jaw and the downward tilt of his eyes and the long, black eyelashes. His hair is sweaty, sticking adorably to his forehead, and his cheeks are warm and pink and pretty. 

He’s beautiful. Jesus Christ, he’s so beautiful. Evan won’t ever get tired of looking at that face. Never never never. 

“You alright?” Connor asks, tender and a little concerned, and Evan realizes he’s been staring blankly at him with his mouth half hanging open.

“Yeah, I...you just... _ god,  _ Connor _ …”  _

Connor bumps his forehead gently against Evan’s, resting it there so they’re in each other’s bubbles, breathing each other’s air. 

“You’re fucking  _ incredible _ , Evan. I love you so fucking much.  _ So  _ fucking much.”

And then they kiss for a while, and murmur praise and soft affection against each other’s lips. 

And Connor’s eyelids start to droop, start to sink, and he grows quieter, and…

“Your paper,” Evan remembers suddenly. “What about your paper?”

“Y’already wrote it, ‘member?” Connor mumbles. “Cubes ‘n shit. Van Gogh, Michelangelo ‘n Mona Lisa.” 

"But…" protests Evan feebly, because as much as he wants Connor to stay with him, he doesn't want to be responsible for him missing a deadline just because Evan's fucked out and clingy. "But you--"

"Just...just gimme like... ten minutes or so, 'kay? Won’t make a difference to my paper, promise.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I can--”

“Ten minutes,” Connor insists. “Just ten minutes of this. C'mon. It's the best day of the week."

Evan decides not to argue with a good thing.

He nuzzles his nose against Connor’s, runs his hands up and down Connor’s wrists. Drifts.

He thinks about the way Connor’s arms feel around him; the way he’s smiling softly, crookedly. He thinks about pale skin and pierced ears and gentle laughter. He thinks about the intensity of Connor’s eyes when he tells Evan he loves him. 

He thinks about cubes.

And he thinks about the fact that there’s two goddamn open cartons of milk in their fridge right now. 

Connor is right.

Today is the best day.

And so is tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

The best day of the week.

  
  
  



End file.
